Pages

Monday, October 31, 2016

From the USA Today bestselling author of ONE DANGEROUS DESIRE comes a sparkling new series about a rogue who must learn how to follow the rules and a woman who wants to break all of them, perfect for fans of Maya Rodale and Lorraine Heath. Is that not a gorgeous cover?Enjoy!

A sparkling new series
about a rogue who must learn how to follow the

rules and a woman who wants to
break all of them.

RULES FOR A ROGUE

Romancing the Rules #1

Christy Carlyle

Releasing Nov 1st, 2016

Avon Impulse

Kit Ruthven's Rules (for
Rogues)

#1 Love freely but guard your heart,
no matter how tempting the invader.

Following
the rules never brought anything but misery for Christopher “Kit” Ruthven.
After rebelling against his controlling father and leaving the family’s Ruthven
Rules etiquette book empire behind, Kit has been breaking every one imaginable
for the past six years. He’s enjoyed London’s sensual pleasures and secured his
reputation as a Rogue, but he’s failed to achieve success. When he inherits his
father’s publishing business, Kit is forced back into the life he never wanted.
Worse, he must face Ophelia Marsden, the woman he jilted but never forgot.

After
losing her father and refusing a loveless marriage proposal, Ophelia has
learned to rely on herself. To maintain the family home and support her younger
brother, she tutors young girls in deportment and decorum. But her pupils would
be scandalized if they knew their imminently proper teacher was also the author
of a guidebook encouraging ladies to embrace their independence and overthrow
outdated notions of etiquette like the Ruthven Rules.

As Kit
rediscovers the life, and the woman, he left behind, Ophelia must choose
between the practicalities she never truly believed in, or the love she’s never
been able to extinguish.

Follow the blog tour including reviews by clicking the graphic at the top of the page.

Before Ophelia could gather her
sister and head back to the kitchen, a knock sounded at the front door. Juliet
clutched her notebook to her chest and bolted back into the library.

Slipping Guidelines behind her back with one hand, Ophelia grasped the
doorknob with the other. She schooled her features into a pleasant expression
in case it was Mrs. Raybourn or, heaven forbid, Mr. Raybourn, in need of more
reassurance their girls weren’t on the high road to ruin because of the book no
one knew she’d written.

When she pulled the door open, all
the breath whooshed from her body.

Their visitor wasn’t any member of
the Raybourn family.

“Kit Ruthven.”

“You remember me, then?” He grinned
as he loomed on the threshold, his shoulders nearly as wide as the frame. Eyes
bright and intense, he took her in from head to toe, and then let his gaze
settle on her mouth. When he finally looked into her eyes, the cocksure tilt of
his grin had softened. She read a wariness in his gaze that matched her own.

She’d spent years trying to forget
those dark, deep-set eyes.

“I remember you.” Her book slipped,
skidding across her backside and clattering to the floor as her throat
tightened on sentiments she’d been waiting years to express. None of them would
come. Not a single word. Instead, in outright rebellion, her whole body did its
best to melt into a boneless puddle. Gritting her teeth, Phee fought the urge
to swoon or, worse, rush into his long, muscled arms.

“I’m relieved to hear it.” He had
the audacity to kick his grin into a smile, a rakish slash that cut deep divots
into his clean-shaven cheeks. Then he took a step through her door. “I worried
that—”

“No.” She lifted a hand to stop him.
Looking at the man was difficult enough. Hearing his voice—deeper now but
achingly familiar—was too much. If he came closer, she might give in to some
rogue impulse. And that wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.

Ophelia swallowed hard. She needed a
moment to gather her wits. To rebuild her walls.

“You dropped something.” He moved
toward her, so close his sleeve brushed hers.

She lowered her hand to avoid
touching him and jerked back when he bent to retrieve her book, watching as he
turned the volume to read its title.

“Miss
Gilroy’s Guidelines for Young Ladies. How intriguing. Looks as though
Ruthven Publishing has some competition.”

Seeing him again was worse than
she’d imagined. And she had imagined this moment aplenty. Far too many times.
Not just on her infrequent jaunts to London but most days since they’d parted.
The man had lingered in her thoughts, despite every effort to expel him.

Taking a shaky breath, she braced
herself and faced him.

He’d always been tall. When they
were children, she’d looked up to him. Literally. But he’d never used his size
to bully others. More often he’d born teasing about his physique. Ungainly, his father had called him, and
Kit repeated the word when referring to himself.

Now he offered no apologetic hunch
in his stance. He didn’t cross his arms to narrow his body. More than embracing
his size, he wielded his generous dimensions with a virile grace that made
Phee’s mouth water. He stood with his long legs planted wide, shoulders thrown
back. His chest was so broad that she itched to touch it.

Stop
being a ninny, she
chided herself. The most essential
observation was that he did not look like a man who’d pined for her. Not a hint
of guilt shadowed his gaze.

He thrust his hands behind his back,
and the buttons above his waistcoat strained against the fabric on either side,
as if the muscles beneath were too sizable to contain. Phee’s gaze riveted to
the spot, waiting to see which would win—the pearly buttons or the dove gray
fabric. When sense finally wound its way into her boggled mind, she glanced up
into gilded brown eyes. He was the
winner, judging by the satisfied smirk cresting his mouth.

Kit stood too near, close enough for
her to smell his scent. A familiar green, like fresh-cut grass, but mingled now
with an aromatic spice. Each breath held his spice scent heightened by the
warmth of his body. The heat of him radiated against her chest.

His eyes were too intense, too
hungry. He perused her brazenly, studying the hem of her outdated gown before
his gaze roved up her legs, paused at her waist, lingered on her bosom, and
caught for a moment on her lips. Finally, he met her eyes, and his mouth
flicked up in a shameless grin.

She looked anywhere but at his eyes.
On his neck, she noted the scar from a childhood adventure in the blackberry
briar. Then she got stuck admiring his hair. Apparently his scandalous London
lifestyle—if the rumors she’d heard were true—called for allowing his jet black
hair to grow long and ripple in careless waves. Strands licked at his neck,
curled up near his shoulders.

Time had been truly unfair. The
years hadn’t weathered Kit at all. If anything, his features were sharper and
more appealing. His Roman nose contrasted with the sensual fullness of his lips
and those high Ruthven cheekbones. And his eyes. Gold and amber and chocolate
hues chased each other around a pinwheel, all shadowed by enviably thick ebony
lashes. One theater reviewer had written of the “power of his penetrating gaze.”

Ophelia only knew he’d once been
able to see straight to her heart.

Retreating from his magnetic pull,
she dipped her head and stared at his polished black boots, the neatly tailored
cuffs of his trousers. Black as pitch, his clothing reminded her why he was
here. He’d come to the village to bury his father. He was no doubt as eager to
return to London as she was to close her eyes and make the too tempting sight
of him disappear. But why had he come to her home?

“My condolences to you and your
sisters,” she offered, and almost added Mr.
Ruthven. That’s what everyone in the village would call him now, and they
would expect him to live up to the name. Just as his father had.

“You didn’t attend the funeral.”

“Would your father have wished me
to?” They both knew Kit’s father had never welcomed her presence in his life.
She didn’t bother mentioning that Ruthven’s rule book explicitly instructed
ladies to avoid funerals.

He shrugged. “I only know what I
wished.”

There it was. The heart of all that
had passed between them spelled out in six words. Kit had never doubted what he
wanted—freedom, fame as a playwright, financial success on his own terms.
Unfortunately, she’d never made it high enough on his list.

“Forgive me for missing your
father’s funeral. I promise to call on your sisters soon.” Ophelia slid the
door toward him, forcing him to retreat as she eased it closed. “Thank you for
your visit.”

Pushing his sizable booted foot
forward, he wedged it between the door and its frame. “I don’t think we can
count this as a visit until you invite me in.”

Fueled
by Pacific Northwest coffee and inspired by multiple viewings of every British
costume drama she can get her hands on, Christy Carlyle writes
sensualhistorical romance set in the Victorian era. She loves heroes
who struggle against all odds and heroines who are ahead of their time. A
former teacher with a degree in history, she finds there’s nothing better than
being able to combine her love of the past with a die-hard belief in happy
endings.

DISCLAIMER

The reviews and opinions expressed here on CUDDLES PLEASE Book Blog are strictly my own. I do not get paid to review books. If we receive an Advance Review Copy (ARC) from an author, publisher and/or publicist, the review will indicate such. All other eBooks are purchased at my own expense unless indicated otherwise.